


here's to the end of our sanity

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:50:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur suffers from OCD. Eames finds out and tries to play the hero. Or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here's to the end of our sanity

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a fill for inception-kink.

The first time Eames sets foot in Bangalore, the temperature reaches a sweltering 38.9. The moisture beads on his skin when he steps outdoors, rolling down his spine and making imported Italian cotton as uncomfortable as department store polyester. 

He tells Mal he’ll hail a cab but she insists on sending Arthur. Their new point man extraordinaire, she explains, in that French way of hers that lets Eames know she’s completely taken with this American without a surname. Mal’s a sensitive soul, but her affection isn’t easily won. She likes honest men, albeit with flexible morals, and the fact that she likes Eames makes him think there’s something she sees in him that he doesn’t.

Arthur arrives sooner than he expects, in a black BMW with a black interior, stepping out in a black leather jacket as he slides his aviators down the bridge of his nose. Eames would call the getup ludicrous if he didn’t find it sexy. He wonders if the trunk of the car is lined with firearms, his imagination running away with him a little because Arthur looks precisely like the kind of man who would be deadly with a gun, and perhaps equally deadly without one.

“Mr. Eames.” It’s not a question. Eames assumes he’s done his research.

“Eames is just fine.” 

Even though they’ll come to depend on each other in the next few weeks, they don’t shake hands. It’s just how it is in this business, this precarious balance of blind faith and self-preservation.

Arthur nods his head and pushes his sunglasses back into place. Eames looks up and sees heavy storm clouds rolling in from a distance, promising a brief respite from the heat wave.

“So you’ve worked with Mal and Cobb before.”

Eames tucks a cigarette between his lips and angles his body towards Arthur to dig out his lighter, catching a whiff of Arthur’s cologne, something that smells expensive and foreign. When he lights up, he opens the window out of courtesy.

“On a few occasions when they needed my services. I prefer to diversify but they’re quite the persuasive pair.”

“They’re the best in the business.”

Eames studies Arthur’s profile, the curve of his lips, the slope of his cheekbone, and the faint scar rising from the underside of his jaw. He wonders if wearing sunglasses when it’s indisputably overcast is a habit of Arthur’s or a precaution.

“It’s always a pleasure to work with the best, isn’t it?” 

“I hear you’re the best, Mr. Eames.” Arthur’s lips twitch and Eames has the distinct sense that Arthur’s testing him, for personal or professional reasons he can’t be sure, but he’s more than willing to play the game.

“Is that so?” He flicks the ashes of his cigarette out the window. “What else do your files say about me?”

He notes Arthur’s pause with satisfaction. 

The point men he’s worked with all had their idiosyncrasies. He remembers Jules who had an eidetic memory so he didn’t bother to keep hard copies of anything, a foolproof way to avoid information landing in the wrong hands. Then there was Sofie, who scrawled tiny, furious notes in the margins of her dossiers, so unreadable they might as well have been in Latin.

His question was no shot in the dark. He’s already observed the unyielding line of Arthur’s back, the composure with which he navigates Bangalore’s treacherous roads, and the succinctness of his conversation. He stores away the implication of Arthur’s pause, careful, though, to avoid categorization. He imagines there’s no such thing as having Arthur pegged. 

“You’ve cultivated quite a reputation in the last six years. You were one of the first to specialize in forgery, although you started out as thief with a little gambling problem, which got you on the bad side of a lot of bad people. But it put you on the fast track to making a name for yourself. You were involved in the MI6 leak four years ago and the Nikkei crash a year later. Your work is generally impeccable but you have a penchant for improvisation, which some might consider a liability.”

Eames has always wondered what someone with a little skill and tenacity might dig up on him and he’s slightly impressed. 

“And what would you consider it, Arthur?” 

They pull into the parking lot of a high-rise gleaming in all its post-modern glory. Arthur takes off his sunglasses and hooks them onto his collar before turning to Eames. His eyes are sharp and dark with beautifully kept secrets.

“I’ve catalogued it as a necessary risk.”

Arthur smiles with a careful measure of levity and Eames begins to see the extent of his predicament.

*

Eames is a wanderer with a fickle heart, or so he likes to put it. As a rule, he never invests in people, only in jobs. He learned a few hard lessons at the start, the way kids do when they think they’re clever enough to single-handedly take on the criminal underground. The thing is, he’s coming to believe that there is, in fact, an exception to every rule.

He’s been keeping tabs on Cobb ever since Bangalore. More precisely, he’s been keeping tabs on Arthur, who seems perfectly content to stay on as point man for the dynamic duo. The average person would interpret it as loyalty, which probably isn’t entirely off the mark; Arthur _likes_ the two, to be sure. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he enjoys Mal’s company. But if Eames had to guess (and it’s often guesswork with Arthur), it’s the constancy that Arthur values, the familiarity that puts him at ease. Eames has found that while many people resign themselves to routine, Arthur _indulges_ in it. It’s one of many of his peculiarities that drives Eames mad with curiosity. And in that secluded glass box on the top floor of the high-rise in Bangalore, he had come just short of cornering Arthur and pressing against him until he relented.

This time, he takes the job before Cobb barely gets a word out. Mal smiles because she knows. She knew the moment they had stepped into the room, drenched by the sudden downpour, and Eames’s eyes had diligently followed the trickle of rain down Arthur’s cheek and throat.

“That’s—okay. I thought it would take a little more convincing than that.” Naturally, Cobb is oblivious. Mal once claimed that it’s part of his charm, but who can blame Eames for being skeptical.

“I think Bogotá will suit Eames nicely.” Mal rests her chin in her hand as she watches him, sharing in his secret. He’s rather inclined to agree with her.

They fly direct that evening from Cape Town, touching down at El Dorado when daylight is just beginning to wane. The warehouse is in the historical district, walking distance to Plaza de Bolívar, which Mal says is a sight to behold during the midday hours when the sun turns everything into gold.

Arthur’s already there when they arrive, crouched with one knee on the floor as he fiddles with the lopsided drawer of a desk he’s already claimed, his files, laptop, and wristwatch set neatly on the surface. This delineation of workspace is another habit of Arthur’s, one that makes Eames’s leg twitch with the urge to invade those boundaries and see how Arthur copes.

From the back, he looks exactly the same as he did when Eames left Bangalore, shoulders lean under the stretch of his Oxford, impeccably dressed. It’s early enough in the day that his hair is still tamed and slick with gel; it usually starts to rebel by early evening, starting at the nape. 

It’s when he stands up and turns around that Eames sees he’s clearly not the Arthur from five months ago, and for a moment he’s at a loss for words.

Arthur looks haggard, like he’s barely slept, his mouth and the corners of his eyes showing the most wear. His clothes aren’t loose, but their measurements are no longer precise. His movements are still crisp and controlled, edges unyielding, but there’s something, something in the center that’s starting to fissure. Eames wants to lay his hand against Arthur’s neck, just to make sure Arthur’s still as warm as he remembers.

“Arthur. Always a pleasure.”

“Eames. I’ll have you know you’re not as hard to find as some people make you out to be.” Arthur’s tone is pleasant enough but his eyes are tightly guarded as he unrolls his sleeves, taking his time to tug at the creases and button the cuffs. The deftness of his fingers is hypnotic and Eames almost loses the thread of conversation.

“Ah, but what if I wanted to be found this time?” He smiles and Arthur raises his eyebrows slightly before he retrieves his waistcoat from the back of his chair. Eames finds that with every bit of clothing that Arthur slips back into place, there’s an added degree of assurance in the line of his body, as if he’s strapping on armor to better wage his wars.

“Are you implying that I wouldn’t be able to find you if you didn’t want to be found?” 

_If you were the one doing the finding, darling, then I would always want to be found._ That’s what Eames would say if he wasn’t a little terrified that Arthur would reject it. 

“Now there’s a theory I’d like to test.” Maybe it’s the sound of his words suggesting that he meant to say something else entirely, because, for a moment, there’s give in the firm line of Arthur’s mouth, as if with just a little more sincerity Eames could’ve earned what he wanted. 

“Eames, go change into something more respectable. I think it’s time we pay Señor Navarro a visit.”

Arthur blinks once, slowly, like he’s just woken up, and the moment’s past. He turns away, straightening his shoulders, and Eames dips a hand into his pocket, just to be sure.

*

When Eames wakes up the next morning, the clock by his bedside reads 5:45. He considers himself an early riser, just not this early. The problem is, he’s never been good at falling back asleep, so he rises grudgingly and sits at the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and blaming jetlag, even though he knows it’s nonsense. 

He expects the warehouse to be empty when he walks in. Instead, he sees Arthur bent over his PASIV, methodically inserting the Somnacin vials into their cradles. He doesn’t bother to look up when Eames approaches, which, regrettably, isn’t far out of the ordinary, but there’s something off, something unsettling about the tightness of his jaw and the sound of his breaths.

“Arthur?” Eames looks down and finds Arthur’s hands shaking. “Arthur, are you all right?”

He gives a near imperceptible nod of his head but says nothing. Eames frowns and watches as he pushes in the last vial, activates the release mechanism, pulls out the vials, and starts all over again.

“Arthur, what are you doing. Arthur.” He grabs a wrist that feels insubstantial under his fingers, pressing down a little to get Arthur to look at him. It takes a split second for Arthur to redistribute his weight and respond with an elbow to Eames’s chest, forcing him to let go and stumble backwards.

“What the fuck. What—” When Arthur turns back and picks up right where he left off, a creeping dread seizes Eames’s throat. He’s seen something like this before, an architect who was reduced to drawing his designs over and over again until he was no longer useful to anyone. No one wanted to hire an architect who couldn’t build. But this is Arthur, Arthur who defines his work by his efficiency and his pace. Arthur who never speaks of reputation, even though he’s painstakingly cultivated it, same as Eames. 

“Arthur, what’s going on.”

“Eames, just let it go.” His voice is stretched thin with restraint. The vials click into place, one by one.

“We’re in this job together. I think I have the right to—”

“No, you don’t, because it’s none of your goddamn business.”

Eames pretends it’s not a slap in the face as he walks out and fumbles for his cigarettes. It takes him a few tries to light one and he sucks in as much smoke as his lungs can take, trying to forget that he ever thought it was a good idea to make an exception.

*

It’s evident over the next few days that they’ve reached a stalemate in which Eames refuses to deny there’s a problem and Arthur refuses to acknowledge it. So they settle into a fragile normalcy, albeit so masterfully contrived that even Mal is fooled. As it turns out, both of them are nothing if not practiced liars.

Eames is aware of the power he has over Arthur. In this business, it takes years to build a reputation and days to tear it down. Suspicion in the criminal underground is a contagion. So he’s a little surprised that Arthur hasn’t issued any threats, veiled or otherwise, to keep his mouth shut. He wonders if Arthur’s generosity is a consequence of his trust in Eames. It’s a fantastical thought, perhaps, but one he sustains, especially when he absently leans over Arthur to read the computer screen, chest grazing Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur says nothing. 

It took him three cigarettes to imagine that what Arthur hates most is weakness he can’t eliminate or control. The admission of it probably comes a close second. So Eames keeps his mouth shut and watches Arthur carefully until he comes to identify the nuances of tension in Arthur’s body, the tightening and loosening of his shoulders, and the particular arch of his spine. He can tell Arthur’s no better off than he was when they started, but no worse. He begins to hope that it was a fluke, and that Arthur doesn’t need to be saved from anyone, least of all from himself.

Eames is reviewing his handwritten dossiers on Navarro’s wife and son, and pitying the poor bastard for all the misfortune he’s about to be dealt, when the sound of Arthur’s voice, tight and irritable, pulls his attention away. 

“No, I haven’t finished yet as evidenced by the fact that I’m still working on it.”

Eames looks over at Cobb, who seems more puzzled than anything else. Arthur had started to detail the extent of Celmundo’s foreign investments two hours ago, which might be a reasonable length of time for the average person, but Arthur isn’t average. In fact, Arthur would probably kneecap anyone who categorized him as such. 

“I thought you started that two hours ago?” Even Cobb is tactful enough to gently lay down the implication.

“I’ll hand it over as soon as I’m done.” Arthur’s gritting his teeth now and Eames grips his papers until they crinkle. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on Arthur’s forehead that looks out of place considering the season—a dry December that feels even chillier in the warehouse with its vaulted ceiling.

“Arthur, are you all right? You look a little pale, are you coming down with something? Maybe you should take the rest of the day off.” Mal has the tendency to mother Arthur, maybe because he’s thinner than she would like or maybe because he looks younger than he should at twenty-nine. Whatever the reason, Arthur has always suffered it with a smile.

“Can everyone just leave me alone for one goddamn minute? I’ll get it done!”

Eames doesn’t have to turn around to know that Mal looks stunned. In fact, he’s pretty sure he looks the same. Even when Arthur doesn’t smile, he rarely raises his voice; it’s just the sort of control he practices. 

Both Mal and Cobb return to their work, with one part unease and two parts resolve; they’re willing to let it go because everyone has a breaking point, even the most unbreakable of men. Eames wonders if, for Arthur, it’s less about reaching a point and more about walking an interminable line between solid ground and wide empty space. He keeps the thought close, and the fear a little closer.

There’s little conversation for the rest of the day and Eames can feel the guilt eroding the corners of Arthur’s pride. Before Arthur leaves, he approaches Mal with a rueful smile and soft-spoken words that transform him for a moment into the kind of man he’s never been with Eames. It’s a subtle side of Arthur that looks beautiful on him, and it charms and devastates Eames in equal measures. 

When he ends up at Arthur’s hotel room that night, he’s already kicked consequences to the curb along with any delusion of selfless intent. While it wouldn’t be wrong to say that he wants to ride in on a white horse and slay Arthur’s demons, the fact of the matter is, he just _wants_.

When Arthur opens the door, he looks genuinely surprised. 

“Eames. What are you doing here? Aren’t you staying all the way across town? And don’t feed me that loneliness loves company bullshit, it won’t work on me.”

Eames hears the telltale slur of Arthur’s words. He learned in a half-empty, derelict pub in Bangalore that Arthur’s not only talkative when he’s drunk, he also mangles his idioms. 

“Came by to have a drink, but I see you’ve started without me. Now where’s the fun in that?”

Arthur narrows his eyes before stepping aside, allowing just enough space for Eames to squeeze by, and when he does, he smells the cologne that always reminds him of that Bangalore heat wave. 

The room is airy, as if the windows were just shut. Eames spots a bottle of Laphroaig on the dresser, which he suspects one can’t buy from a liquor store on any old street corner in Bogotá. He picks it up and inspects the label.

“You have good taste.”

“Flattery won’t work on me either. Why did you come by, Eames. Surely not for small talk.” Arthur’s eyes are a little unfocused but Eames imagines he could still incapacitate a man with his bare hands if the occasion called for it. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Arthur free of both his tie and waistcoat—and shoes, he notices as he looks down the length of Arthur’s body, and he’s silenced, by the hollow of Arthur’s throat and the bareness of his feet. It’s Arthur stripped of as many layers as he might ever allow, and it’s a sight to behold, intimate, vulnerable, and more perilous than ever to the state of Eames’s heart.

When he doesn’t answer immediately, Arthur drags a hand over his face and lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll be back. Just—stay here. And don’t touch anything. You can have a drink.”

He disappears into the bathroom and Eames decides that no one’s ever made him flounder quite like Arthur. He suddenly has the profound need for a drink and picks up the Laphroaig again. As he tips the amber liquid into a glass, he spots a prescription bottle in the otherwise empty bin. It’s only when he plucks it out and examines the label that he makes the connection. Clomipramine. He’s heard of it before, from a chemist who had a bright future in pharmaceuticals once, although it was his opinion that the black market was the lesser of the two evils.

“What are you doing?”

Eames turns around and Arthur’s there, frowning like he stalled halfway through a realization.

“Arthur, what is this?” 

He wants to hear it from Arthur this time and he’ll punch through walls to get it, even if Arthur’s resentment is his end reward. He sees now that whatever composure Arthur’s shown on the job, it was all posturing, cobbled together with that pride of his and an unfailing sense of duty, no doubt drilled into him during his military days. Eames is no psychiatrist but he makes a living off studying people in all their vast, often paradoxical, complexities, and he sees that what Arthur needs most is catharsis.

“What the fuck, Eames, you went through my _trash_?”

“If you didn’t want anyone to find it, then you could’ve done a better job hiding it. And you didn’t answer my question.” He knows that gentle prodding won’t get him anywhere. If Arthur wants to start a war, then Eames will just have to take up arms.

“I’m choosing not to. Now get the hell out.” 

When he walks by to open the door, Eames moves quickly. They scuffle a little with Eames trying to lock Arthur’s arms in place and Arthur trying to twist free of Eames’s hold. If Arthur wasn’t a little drunk and a lot unhinged, Eames would’ve been fighting a losing battle. Instead, he succeeds in pinning Arthur to the nearest wall, right hand holding Arthur’s wrists together, left forearm digging into Arthur’s back. 

Arthur’s as tense as a high wire but he stops struggling, and Eames can’t say he isn’t a little high off the power. The heat of Arthur’s body is intoxicating as he leans in, and suddenly there’s lust to go along with the adrenaline, traveling through his blood like a heroin injection without the risks. He shifts one more inch so their thighs are pressed together and Arthur makes a small, ruined sound in the back of his throat. Eames swallows, nearly dizzy with the effort to keep from rocking his hips and latching his mouth onto the vulnerable curve of Arthur’s neck.

“I’m going to let go now and trust that you’ll stay put, darling.” He’s used the endearment before but never like this, never murmured against the shell of Arthur’s ear in request for his willing submission. Arthur shivers a little beneath him and then nods.

Eames loosens his grip and takes one step back as Arthur turns around and slumps against the wall. His eyes manage to beseech and accuse all at once, with a misery that seeks to topple Eames and bury them both. Somewhere along the way, Eames went from hero to villain, and, while he’s always been cavalier about the distinction, he finds that he can’t bear the thought of Arthur mistaking his intentions.

He lifts a hand, feeling like a bastard when Arthur jerks involuntarily, and brings it to Arthur’s jaw, fingers sliding reverently against flushed, smooth skin before curling inwards to tip Arthur’s chin upward.

“If you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to break my heart,” he murmurs in earnest. 

Arthur parts his lips slightly and shuts his eyes for one breath, as if Eames’s confession might just end him, decisively and quietly, and the sight is so shattering, so lovely that Eames can’t help it. He leans in and plants a kiss on Arthur’s mouth, chastely, asking for permission. When Arthur says nothing, eyes dark and expectant, Eames leans in again, slipping his hand behind Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur yields so willingly that Eames loses his senses for a moment, finds them, only to lose them again when he slides his tongue past Arthur’s lips and tastes Arthur’s inherent sweetness underlying the rich, smoky flavor of scotch. He moves his hand to Arthur’s throat just in time to feel Arthur’s contented whimper against his palm, and he shakes, against Arthur’s heat and sounds and reciprocation.

When they pull apart, Arthur’s head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud, his chest heaving, mouth swollen, and it’s so vivid that Eames could care less if it ended up being a dream.

“You can’t hide from me forever.” The taste of Arthur is still warm and distracting on his tongue but he hasn’t forgotten why he’s here. He might’ve gained one concession, but he’s not stupid enough to believe that he’s won the war.

Sure enough, Arthur lifts his head up only to clench his jaw and turn away. It’s a strategic retreat, after which Arthur will assess his losses and fortify his resistance.

“Just go.” Something lags behind. “Please.”

This time Eames leaves, taking care to close the door without looking back.

*

If Eames could use any metaphor to describe the next two days, he would go with a powder keg ready to blow. Thing is, he seems to be the only one who senses any danger, and maybe that’s because if it ever did blow, it’d happen right under his feet. 

Arthur’s been perfectly cordial to Cobb, even obliging to Mal. With Eames, he’s curt and short-tempered, bordering on belligerent. If Eames didn’t know any better, he’d think that Arthur was retaliating to gain back the ground he lost. But Eames understands a thing or two about Arthur. He knows that nothing is ever so simple where Arthur’s concerned. And while point men are a dime a dozen, Arthur is a gem, exquisitely cut and deceptively transparent. So Eames bides his time, and when Arthur pushes, he pushes back a little harder. He imagines it was a guarantee from the start that Arthur would keep him on his toes.

“What part of _militarized_ do you not understand? The longer we stay down there, the bigger the risk.”

Arthur’s voice is clipped, his shoulders and mouth hard with tension that makes Eames wonder just how weary Arthur feels when he goes to bed at night. Eames remembers how their arguments used to go. A healthy dose of sniping followed by a quick, sensible compromise that kept the operation running like a well-oiled machine. Nowadays, Arthur aims to provoke an ugly, spiteful impulse in Eames, as if the more blows and bruises the better. 

“I understand perfectly well, Arthur, but deception can’t be rushed. Navarro’s a practical man, but he’s overconfident. The threat has to be tangible enough. We need to make him nervous.”

“Then tell Cobb to make the maze more elaborate.” 

Arthur resumes his typing at a vicious pace. Eames can’t see the keyboard from where he’s standing but he can picture Arthur’s long-fingered proficiency.

“Cobb agrees with me.”

The rhythmic taps falter for a second. The brittleness at the corners of Arthur’s mouth would be a sign of long hours and job investment to anyone else. To Eames, they’re the quiet indication of a tragic flaw that vindicates God’s penchant for irony. 

“If your minds were already made up, then why even bother to ask for my opinion.”

“Arthur.”

“You two do whatever you think is best. I need to finish this.”

Eames knows what it sounds like, and the worst of it is, it’s not far from the truth. As much faith as Cobb has in Arthur’s competence, he’s having creeping doubts, and he’s told Eames as much. This puts Eames between a rock and a hard place. Normally he has no qualms about sacrificing personal relationships for professional success, but Arthur doesn’t make it easy. Arthur strikes a chord in him that changes his tune, usually from a conniving bastard to a sentimental sod.

“Arthur, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Arthur flexes his jaw like he’s steeling himself against the urge to make a point with his fists. His eyes pin Eames in place. “Christ, Eames, just spit it out—”

He flings his hand up in exasperation and knocks over his coffee, sloshing it over himself and a stack of papers.

“Fuck!” He jumps up from his chair and grabs the files, shaking the excess liquid off as Eames strides over to blot the remaining mess with take-away napkins.

“This is what happens when you drink coffee at ungodly hours.” 

Arthur doesn’t respond or crack a smile. Instead, he sets the papers down and stares at the stains on his skin and sleeve for a moment.

“I’ll be right back.” He doesn’t look up as he walks away and disappears into the washroom.

Eames cleans up the desk before settling into Arthur’s chair, swiveling restlessly and wondering if a fistfight might just be the quickest, most effective resolution. He’s watched Arthur spar before, indulged in the artful balance of masculinity and feline grace that’s proven so characteristic of the way Arthur carries himself. He also knows that Arthur isn’t above fighting dirty and the masochistic part of him wants a first-hand experience of being at Arthur’s mercy.

His pocket watch tells him that five minutes have already passed and he decides it’s the upper limit of his patience considering the circumstances. When he pushes open the door, he hears water running.

“Arthur, have you—” He stops short because Arthur’s standing at the sink with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, washing his hands and forearms with a ferocity that sets off every alarm bell in Eames’s head.

He walks over slowly and stands a respectful distance away, sliding his eyes down Arthur’s profile, from the starkness of Arthur’s lashes against his skin to the sharp protrusion of his cheekbone. Arthur has never been soft, but his angles nick at Eames’s skin now, threaten to draw blood.

“How long has it been since you were diagnosed with OCD?”

He hears a slightly sharper intake of breath but Arthur doesn’t stop. His skin is already rubbed pink and raw, the edges of his sleeves dark. Eames wants to touch him and imagine that it gives him some relief to know that Eames wants this, wants him, whatever the answer.

“I’m not asking because I’m concerned about the job. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck about the job. I’m asking because—”

Arthur’s hands still, only for second but it’s enough for Eames know that Arthur’s listening, out of curiosity if nothing else.

“Because you expect me to turn on my heels and run the other way, and I want you to know that you’re mistaken.”

The only sound left is the running tap and Eames waits patiently. Arthur’s eyelids flutter, as if there’s a weakness stirring. After a minute, or maybe an hour, Eames doesn’t keep count, Arthur shuts off the water and lays his palms down on either side of the sink, bowing his head slightly.

“I thought it was getting better.” 

His voice is low, nearly weightless, as if it’ll crack if he speaks any louder. Eames’s hands shake inside his pockets and he suddenly needs a smoke. As hard as he’s pressed Arthur to say the words, he realizes that he’s not actually prepared to hear them.

“They say for some people the symptoms ease over time. I thought I could be one of those people. I took the pills at the beginning because they helped me do my job. I wanted to be the best, you know how that goes.”

Eames recalls Bangalore, Arthur’s bright, feverish intensity. And then he recalls Arthur’s willingness to laugh, the charm that snuck up on a person when he showed those dimples.

“I hated taking them though, twice a day, every fucking day. I hated the dependency. I finally decided to stop because—sometimes you have to fool yourself into thinking for a while that you’ll be one of the lucky ones.” 

Arthur takes a deep breath and it sounds thick, wet. Eames’s hand clenches around his poker chip and it shatters him a little, to know that it’s still reality they’re standing in.

When Arthur finally straightens and turns to Eames, his eyes are dry, mouth soft and resigned.

“If I were you, I’d run as fast as hell the other way.”

With his shirt wrinkled and his hair curling defiantly, he looks vulnerable enough to fool anyone but Eames. Eames knows that, between him and Arthur, he’s always been the weaker man.

“You know,” he takes a few steps, nudging Arthur backward until his heels hit the wall, “I rather like where I am.”

Arthur licks his lips and swallows, drawing Eames’s eyes to his mouth, reminding Eames of the heat and taste of it. “Why?”

“Darling. You had me from the start.” 

His voice comes out quiet and a little wrecked. Arthur takes a shuddering breath and blinks slowly, like he’s struggling to reconcile the confession with his perception of the world. Eames slides an arm around Arthur’s waist and splays his hand across Arthur’s spine. He’s always been a tactile person but with Arthur, the need to touch is constant and maddening.

“I’m disappointed though. I expected to earn a few bruises at the very least. You’ve gone soft on me.”

Arthur’s lips twitch. The darkness of his eyes is muted and warm.

“You can try to kiss me again and see what that gets you,” Arthur suggests like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world to say, and Eames readily complies.

*

“Cobb says they’ll take a vacation after this, somewhere off the radar.” 

Arthur grips the stem of his glass with three fingers and swishes his Bordeaux. A band to their left serenades the patrons with a beat that reminds Eames of Africa’s heat and dancing barefoot in the streets. 

“Cobb on vacation? That’s a fanciful notion.” 

They’re out for a late dinner at an unassuming street corner café that, according to Arthur and his Google search, boasts the most authentic local cuisine. The tablecloths are pristine, the waiters sharply dressed, and at the same time the place is cozy, imbued with a sense of home away from home. Arthur’s tastes, as Eames has found, aren’t necessarily extravagant, but they’re impeccable, much like the way his ties sit at the base of his throat. 

“Another one of his dream-share experiments is my bet. The scary thing is, Mal encourages him.”

Eames chuckles and watches Arthur smile at him, deeply enough to suggest a certain contentment in his choice of surroundings and choice of company. He’s almost forgotten how pleasant Arthur can be, how comfortably he can carry a conversation, and Eames is struck by the shades of him, composing a subtle chaos that shifts to his whims. Tonight, he’s the Arthur that disarms Eames with lovely poise and eyes to match, and as delicious as it is, Eames can’t say he prefers it. He finds that his darker inclinations relish in dysfunction, in the Arthur that lashes out and breaks apart under his hands.

“Ah, but you never knew Cobb before Mal came along with her _joie de vivre_. He was appalling, nose stuck in his architecture books, skulking about in libraries with no fashion sense whatsoever. He claimed his favorite color was brown.”

Arthur snorts a little. “Mal reformed him, huh? I have to say they suit each other. In an unexpected, sickeningly sweet kind of way.”

He takes another sip of the wine that’s left a slight stain on his lips. Eames picks up the bottle and refills his glass. 

“They’re lucky. After they get tired of all the running and hiding and thieving, they’ll retire to watch their children grow up, in a quiet beach house or a villa in the south of France. They don’t live for this business.”

Arthur lowers his eyes. “Don’t be maudlin, Eames, I never pegged you as the type.” 

He sets his forearms on the table, tugging at his cuffs and smoothing the creases. Even when his body is still, his hands are in perpetual motion. It’s another one of his idiosyncrasies that Eames is inexplicably fond of noting, but this time he wants to reach out and pin Arthur’s wrists to the table. He wants Arthur to acknowledge them, what they could be and what they might never be. 

“Cobb and Mal have always been the gold standard, haven’t they.” 

Arthur looks up. The corners of his mouth lift in self-deprecation, telling Eames in no uncertain terms that he wonders, too, whether they’ll be enough for each other once the jobs end and their totems become things of dreams.

Their server appears with the food and Eames remembers they’re supposed to be eating dinner.

“This looks wonderful, thank you,” he says in serviceable Spanish and idly stirs his _ajiaco_. “It’s best if you stay topside tomorrow. Three people can get the job done, it’ll just have to be quick and dirty. We’ll tell Cobb and Mal it’s a precaution, in case the guard returns before the kick. I’m sorry to say it, but you’re still a liability.”

Eames knows he could’ve taken a gentler route but Arthur isn’t the type to need coddling. Arthur’s the type to conceal a holster under his jacket and strap a throwing knife to each ankle on a relaxing evening out on the town.

He’s quiet for a moment, jaw clenching, and Eames imagines that he’s rarely met with a practical solution he wishes he could reject.

“I know.” The minute tremble of Arthur’s hand as he spoons his soup doesn’t escape Eames. He makes it a point in his line of work to pay clinical attention to human intricacies, but his study of Arthur has surely and steadily become something of a hedonistic art form.

“Rumor is Sanderson’s retiring. He took up dream-share about the same time I did. Now what do you think that says about me?” Eames decides that, whatever the outcome tomorrow, his endeavor tonight is to make Arthur smile again.

*

They perform the extraction as planned. Eames would even say it went without a hitch, except he sort of almost gets them killed the minute they enter the second level. He’s dealt with militarized projections before, more times than he cares to keep track of in fact. The trouble is, his head has never been so preoccupied with Arthur before. With images of Arthur twiddling his thumbs in Navarro’s sprawling top-floor office, Arthur pacing past the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Arthur slamming his palms down onto Navarro’s desk, squeezing his eyes shut against the urge to jam the spare cannula into his arm, consequences be damned. 

It takes a yell from Cobb and the heat of a bullet flying by his jaw for him to snap to full attention. In the end, a nervous jerk of Navarro’s head is all the tip-off they need. They snatch up the blueprints and verify the information in time for the kick that carries them all the way up, through Mal’s level of downtown Los Angeles and back into the office, morning sun bearing down through bullet-proof glass, a testament to the corporate paranoia rampant in the country’s more corruptible industries. 

Eames squints and blinks as Arthur hovers over him, cool fingers taking the liberty to remove his cannula. 

“Security run you down hard?”

“Darling, you were worried about me.” Words rarely fluster Arthur but that, by no means, precludes Eames from taking every opportunity to find ones that do.

Arthur opens his mouth with the predictable intention of wounding Eames’s delicate sensibilities, but Cobb interjects.

“We had a close call on level two.” Cobb eyes Eames sideways as he gets up and slides into his jacket, then checks Navarro’s pulse.

Arthur turns back to Eames with eyebrows raised and Eames busies himself with a loose thread on his sleeve because he’s never seen eyes that compel quite like Arthur’s.

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Mal says lightly, eyes shrewd as she glances at Eames and placates Cobb with a smile. Eames thinks he should buy her flowers or a kitchen-full of the Colombian coffee she loves to properly show his gratitude for her womanly intuition.

“The guard will be back at his post within the next ten minutes. If there are no surprises, we should be able to complete the exchange with Ortiz within the hour. We reconvene at the warehouse as planned unless you hear otherwise from me or Mal.”

Istanbul was their _otherwise_. It’s been two years and Eames’s left shoulder still aches dully in cold climates.

“Here’s to hoping there are no surprises then.”

They look at one another, cornered for a moment by the memory, before Cobb brings a hand to the small of Mal’s back. He shortens his strides to match hers when they walk out.

“What was that about?” Arthur glances over his shoulder as he collects the IV lines. Eames thinks that while there may be few things about him that have eluded Arthur’s resourcefulness, Istanbul is most certainly one of those things.

“A story for another time and place. Our ten minutes are almost up, love.” 

Arthur makes a vague sound, lips pressed into a fine line and eyebrows knitted in concentration as he feeds one line after another into the spool. 

“Arthur.”

This time there’s no acknowledgement. Arthur grips the edge of the case with one hand and squeezes his eyes shut, body taut with resistance. Eames can now guess at the obsession festering in Arthur’s head; he’s done his research, pored over websites and brochures and anonymous stories because he wants to know this thing that has Arthur by the throat, the sinister, indeterminable way it cripples Arthur without a sound. He’s always had his own demons to contend with, but there’s something about Arthur’s that at once riles and terrifies him. 

He allows a few seconds to go by before he walks over, pries Arthur’s fingers from the metal, and lifts them to his mouth, laying a kiss on the knuckles that lingers fondly. He turns Arthur’s face towards him with his other hand.

“Look at me, darling.” Arthur’s eyes open and focus with some effort, lips parting for his next exhale. “That’s it, stay with me.”

When he frees his hands to shut the case and secure the latches, Arthur watches him without a word. When he touches the spot between Arthur’s shoulders and walks towards the door, Arthur follows. He recognizes that Arthur’s trust might be driven partly, or entirely, by necessity but he guards it fiercely in any case, cushioning the delicate weight of it against his heart.

*

Three hours before he’s scheduled to fly out, he walks into Arthur’s hotel as dawn stirs low along the rooftops. 

When Arthur opens his door, he’s wide awake and fully dressed. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see Eames there, jacket slung over his shoulder like he’s out for a stroll to the park.

“I couldn’t sleep.” It’s an off-kilter substitute for hello.

Arthur opens the door a little wider. “Me either.”

They walk to Plaza de Bolívar through silent streets still cool from the night and sit on the steps of the cathedral. Eames remembers kneeling in the pews as a boy, hands cold and obedient as he recited the Hail Mary. 

“So they did it. They’re really on vacation. Wouldn’t tell me where but apparently they’ve sworn off jobs for the next month and told Miles to bring the kids.”

“Huh.” Eames wants to ask what that means for Arthur, but he doesn’t. “Imagine that. It’d be nice to avoid gunfire and gruesome deaths for a while. Lie on the beach all day and have drinks served to me with those little umbrellas. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

He’s only half joking. In fact, he wouldn’t be opposed at all to the idea of sunbathing in Seychelles or the Maldives with Arthur stretched out beside him, all long limbs and pale skin, rubbing sun cream onto Arthur’s shoulder, down to the dip of his lower back. 

Arthur makes a show of rolling his eyes. “You’d go stir-crazy. I know I would.”

Eames imagines he’s right. They could never settle for a thing as mundane as contentment, and somehow he wishes for it, maybe because he can imagine settling for Arthur.

The sun hits the top of the building across the square and the effect is sublime. It reminds Eames of Lucia, an architect who spun palaces of gold as a pastime. 

“My flight leaves in two hours.”

Arthur rests his elbows on his knees, looking down at his shoes before looking at Eames. 

“I missed mine.”

It’s a response Eames didn’t expect and the revelation leaves him disoriented and a little breathless. He composes himself by reciting Hamlet.

“I’ve always enjoyed a bit of spontaneity.”

“I know. I’m trying it out. Figured I have some time on my hands.”

“Mombasa is lovely this time of year.” The destination on Eames’s ticket is Bangkok but he’s always had an odd affinity for detours.

“I hear you can really build a reputation over there.” Arthur’s lips twitch and Eames can’t say he’s surprised that Arthur’s dug up all the relevant information.

“Only if you’re so inclined.” He thinks the two of them could raise hell in a city like Mombasa.

“You make tempting propositions, Mr. Eames.” Arthur’s eyes are half-lidded, secretive, but Eames knows he’s already given in for the same reason that kept him in Bogotá.

“You might say I have a knack for it.”

“Is that a vice or a virtue?” 

Arthur presses his palms against his thighs to stand up, and suddenly he’s swaying dangerously, feet balanced precariously on the edge of the step. Eames lurches forward and catches Arthur with an arm around his waist, pulling him close as he grips Eames’s shoulder with one hand, eyes slipping shut for a moment. He said it would be a side effect of the pills, but the knowledge doesn’t stop Eames’s heart from accelerating to a nauseating pace. 

When Arthur’s breaths steady, he opens his eyes, fingers loosening and curling against Eames. It’s a shade of fragility that softens the callused surfaces Eames has built up over the years, and triggers his more chivalrous instincts. He brushes away a loose curl from Arthur’s forehead and thinks they must make a lovely picture, bodies wrapping inward, seeking companionship in the plaza’s solitary expanse. It would be the kind of postcard he’d tuck between the pages of his favorite book, to easily find again and remember.

“Darling, I’ve always wanted to sweep you off your feet.” He thinks he sounds a little insane. Arthur just laughs, and it’s a low mellifluous sound that takes him by surprise, and makes him decide that if this is contentment, then he can think of nothing better.

“If you expect me to be light as a feather, then you’ll be sorely disappointed.” 

Arthur’s smile is cheeky, inviting Eames to give it his best shot, and Eames laughs too, thinking that they both might just be insane enough to make their own luck.


End file.
